


The Weight of the World

by straponselina



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Featuring Soft Boy Doming Molina, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance, he doesn't want to fight he just wants to color with his markers and spend time with his buddy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straponselina/pseuds/straponselina
Summary: The job starts to take a physical toll on Nacho. Lalo tries to help, but only makes things worse.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86





	The Weight of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any errors. I wrote this pretty quickly and wanted to get it up before the new episode tonight.
> 
> The ending's pretty farcical. For that, I am deeply, deeply sorry.

Nacho’s back was killing him. It was unfair, because he had always taken good care of his body. He watched what he ate and worked out religiously. It had all started when he was just a young boy. Every Friday night, his father would whoop and whistle from their threadbare couch while he watched low-resolution _lucha libre_ on the television. Young Ignacio would sit beside him, dividing his attention between the wrestling and his father’s face, learning when to cheer and when to groan. When one half-naked man with a silly mask and bulky physique would pin another to the mat, Manuel would crow, “Look, _mijo_! Look how strong he is!”

Saturday mornings, Nacho would run down the street to the Molina residence and ring the doorbell until Señora Molina would come to the door, carrying a box of markers and a tired visage. He and Domingo would sit at the kitchen table, trying to recreate the silly masks on paper torn from spiral notebooks. Nacho would usually be done in five minutes, while Domingo could take up to half an hour with his. He would bite his lip as he carefully drew intricate designs around the cut-out eyeholes, ignoring Nacho’s nagging to hurry up. Then, finally, the two boys would race to the back yard. With their paper masks tied around their heads with strings, they would tussle for hours in the dead grass. 

By the time they were thirteen, Domingo had lost all interest in wrestling. Without his friend to play-fight with, Nacho started going to a boxing gym. The gym was owned by Señor Ximénez, a loud and muscular man who regularly brought his weathered GTO to Manuel’s shop. In return for considerable discounts, Ximénez taught Nacho how to train, how to throw punches and how to sculpt his body like the fighters he saw on TV. Nacho learned to love working out. The more time and attention he gave his body, the better he felt. He loved the feeling of growing stronger. He loved the pride in his chest when he graduated to larger weights or when he overheard the girls at school giggling about his arms. He loved the look on Señor Ximénez’s face when he approached a fifteen-year-old Nacho to ask if he wanted to start sparring with his star student, Tuco Salamanca. 

By the time Nacho was twenty-seven, the love he felt for his own body had begun to fade. He was deeply embedded in Tuco’s crew and habitually lying to his father about how he spent his days. Nacho would go home to his one-bedroom apartment after a long day with Tuco and lay his aching body down on his couch. He would lie there for what felt like eons, gritting his teeth against the pain. He couldn’t decide which hurt more, the throbbing in his lower back or the fresh wound above his collar bone where a piece of Dog Paulson’s skull was embedded in his flesh.

Now, Nacho was thirty-five, but his back made him feel like he was fifty. Sitting in El Michoacáno with Domingo at a table in front of him and Lalo Salamanca with his feet kicked up at a table to his left, Nacho had trouble concentrating on anything other than the relentless pain crawling up his spine. He should have been focused on Domingo carefully counting bills the dealer had just handed him, but instead he was focused on grinding his knuckles into his own lower back. Even if he weren’t in such pain, he told himself, it wasn’t as if he’d have an easy time concentrating with Lalo’s constant chatter. Although . . .

Nacho allowed himself a cautious glance to the left when he realized that Lalo was, for once, silent. Lalo was looking right back at him, expression inscrutable. His eyes were dark and his gaze was heavy. Something frenetic and caustic danced behind his stony countenance. Nacho desperately wanted to look away, but feared what would happen if he flinched first.

Their staring contest was finally interrupted by a small cough. Nacho turned to find Domingo timidly looking over his shoulder at him. The dealer had his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

“He’s light,” Domingo said.

Fuck. It had been a long time since a dealer had dared come to the restaurant with less than what he owed. It hadn’t happened since Don Hector had, well . . .

Nacho cocked an eyebrow. Domingo should know better than anyone what happened when a dealer was light. 

Domingo nodded and stood up. With one last wary glance back at Nacho, he marched around the table and yanked the dealer up by his collar. It should have been funny. The dealer easily had six inches and forty pounds on Domingo. But Nacho didn’t laugh. He sat silently and waited for Domingo to do his job. 

Domingo began to drag the dealer towards the kitchen, but was stopped when Lalo suddenly jumped up and grabbed his arm.

“Slow down there, Ocho Loco!” Lalo said with a snicker. “You still have collections to make! Why don’t you take a seat and let Ignacio handle this.” 

Silence hung over the room. Nacho blinked slowly. He should have immediately stood up and carried out the indirect order, but he was stunned. He had assumed that the new, post-Hector arrangement meant that he no longer had to be the heavy. That was the one thing he enjoyed about this situation-- he thought was too high up to get his hands dirty. But in the mind of a Salamanca, no one was above the dirty work.

Nacho looked at Lalo, who looked at Domingo, who looked at Nacho. Between them, the dealer began to tremble. No one moved until Juan Carlos, the owner of El Michoacáno, walked hurriedly out of the kitchen and through the front door. 

And Nacho was up. Domingo stumbled back as Nacho’s grip replaced his on the dealer’s collar. With a rough shove, Nacho continued the frogmarch towards the kitchen. To his surprise, Lalo followed. 

When they reached the kitchen, Nacho grabbed a fistful of the dealer’s hair and slammed his face down on the metal counter-top. Jerking him back, Nacho inspected his face. Blood gushed from his nose. It was broken, but far from the worst break he’d seen. This guy was lucky that El Michoacáno couldn’t afford granite.

In quick succession, Nacho delivered two left hooks to the dealer’s gut. _Aim for the spleen!_ , he heard Señor Ximénez yell as a vivid memory of the old gym flooded his mind. But Señor Ximénez hadn’t been talking to him. No, that was what he had told Tuco right before he landed the perfect body shot, leaving Nacho doubled over on the mat, coughing up blood.

Nacho released the fistful of hair and the dealer dropped to the floor like a cinder block, coughing uncontrollably. He rolled on his side and brought his knees into his chest. His shoulders began to shake as the coughing quickly turned into shallow, mewling sobs. Nacho realized his own shoulders were heaving. He was panting, even though he hadn’t exerted much energy in the short altercation. He felt winded.

Attempting to get his breathing under control, he looked away from the man writhing at his feet. Through the kitchen window, he could see a new dealer sitting in front of Domingo. One of the newer guys, a recent high school dropout. He sat ramrod straight, his eyes glued to his hands folded in his lap.

Other than Domingo and the new kid, the restaurant was empty. Right. Nacho had almost forgotten Lalo had come to see the show. He turned around and, sure enough, there was Lalo, leaning casually against the opposite counter. He embodied an ease completely foreign to Nacho. An odd pang of jealousy found its way into the rotting bouquet of emotions already rooted in Nacho’s chest.

It was Lalo’s turn to cock an eyebrow. _Is that it?_

Nacho looked back down at the dealer, still weeping in the fetal position. One, two, three swift kicks to the back, each one followed by a scream. Surely he’d broken a rib, maybe more. The dealer rolled over, a string of pleas pouring from his bloodied mouth, but all Nacho could hear was a high-pitched ringing. He bent over and fisted his hand in the front of the dealer’s shirt, jerking him up. The pain in his back flared and he gritted his teeth. The dealer finally fell silent when Nacho’s fist connected with his jaw. Pain bloomed over Nacho’s knuckles. The dealer stayed quiet as Nacho punched him again, and again, and again. The only thing Nacho heard over the ringing in his ears was a loud crunching noise as the seventh blow broke the dealers jaw. Nacho kept pounding, pounding, pounding until his fist grew numb. Still bent over with his hand fisted in the dealer’s now-scarlet shirt, the ringing in his ears slowly faded, replaced by the sound of his own heaving panting. He felt impossibly tired, what little energy he had left consumed by the effort to keep himself upright. 

Nacho released his grip in the dealer’s hair. He barely held back a wince at the _thwack!_ of the dealer’s head hitting the tiled floor. Nacho leaned down another inch to get a better look at him. Unconscious, but still breathing. 

Slowly, Nacho straightened his spine and stood up, ignoring the screaming protests of the muscles in his back. He rolled his head from side to side, finding momentary relief in the crack of his neck. He took a few seconds to close his eyes and breathe deeply, as if he could exhale himself from his own body. Finally, he opened his eyes and turned to the man standing at the other end of the kitchen.

This time, there was nothing inscrutable about Lalo’s expression. He was beaming.

* * * * *

It wasn’t late when Nacho returned home that evening, but the girls were fast asleep. He found them in his bed (their bed?) sleeping on their sides, Amber’s arm thrown over Jo’s body and Jo’s back pressed into Amber’s chest. A bent spoon and a couple of needles sat on the bedside table. 

It was probably for the best. Nacho could use some peace and quiet tonight. He walked back to the living room, kicking off his boots as he went, and threw himself unceremoniously onto one of the expensive red leather couches. He stretched, reveling in the way his joints popped. He’d just close his eyes for a few minutes and then he’d get up and make himself dinner . . .

Nacho didn’t know how long he’d been out when he was awoken by a tapping on his forehead. With a huff he turned on his side, facing the back of the couch.

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

“The boss wants to see you now.”

With that, he jolted upright, ice suddenly running through his veins. It was Tyrus, alone, holding Nacho’s boots. 

Nacho's voice was still raspy from sleep. “What does he want?”

Tyrus said nothing, just tossed the boots in Nacho’s lap.

He put the boots on and stood, bones creaking. He made his way toward the front door, Tyrus close on his tail, but before he could reach it, the intercom buzzed. 

Nacho froze. He looked back at Tyrus. Tyrus jerked his chin in the direction of the intercom.

Slowly, Nacho walked over and pressed the button. “Who is it?”

“Hola, Nachito!”

Jesus fucking Christ. Just his luck. He turned back to Tyrus, who wore a questioning look on his face.

“It’s Lalo Salamanca.”

Saying nothing, Tyrus turned and walked towards the kitchen. He spared Nacho one long, leveled glare before opening the door of the pantry and walking inside. 

The intercom buzzed again.

When Nacho opened the door, he found not only Lalo, but Domingo and Blingy, too. Lalo did not wait to be invited in, walking straight past Nacho and into the living room. Blingy followed close behind, giving Nacho a congenial slap on the arm and an all-too-familiar, “yo, man!” Domingo waited a beat before following, casting an apologetic look in Nacho’s direction.

Lalo was looking around the living room. “Where are your _muchachas_ ?” Without waiting for an answer, he bellowed, “ _Chicas_! Where are you?”

“They’re sleeping.”

“Well, go get them!”

Nacho did as he was told. He returned with Amber and Jo in toe, both still groggy. Jo clung to Amber’s arm to keep herself upright.

Lalo beamed at the girls. “Ladies! So nice of you to join us!” He waved his hand at Domingo and Blingy. “These two fine gentlemen are going to be your dates for the evening.”

Amber looked at Nacho. Her eyes were cloudy, but tinged with fear. Nacho gave her a small nod. _It's alright_. 

Blingly threw his arm around Amber and led her to the door. Gingerly, Domingo took Jo by the elbow and followed.

When they were alone, Nacho turned to Lalo. “What’s up, man?”

Lalo ignored the question. “How are you feeling, Ignacio?”

Nacho blinked once, twice. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“I’m a little tired, I guess.”

Lalo hummed. “Come with me.”

Lalo led him back outside. There were only two cars parked in the driveway, his and Lalo’s. Nacho thanked God that Tyrus had chosen to park down the street this time.

Lalo walked to the back of his own car and popped the trunk. Nacho followed, steeling himself for whatever grizzly sight he was about to see.

But it wasn’t grizzly. In Lalo’s trunk was a reusable grocery bag packed with food. Lalo dumped the bag in Nacho’s arms before marching back inside.

Lalo made himself at home in Nacho’s kitchen, lighting the stove and rifling through his cupboards for pans and measuring cups. Nacho set the bag down on the counter and began unpacking the food. Chicken, rice, chicken broth, a glass jar filled with some kind of brown sauce, two bottles of wine, and a bottle of lotion. Nacho warily eyed the bottle of lotion. Surely that wasn’t meant for tonight. 

Noticing his expression, Lalo chuckled. “Don’t worry, the mole isn’t store-bought. I made it yesterday.”

Nacho left the lotion in the bag. It was probably best to just ignore it.

“Two bottles of wine?”

“Ah, yes!” Lalo grabbed the bottles from Nacho and studied the labels. “I couldn’t decide which to get, so I thought ‘why not let Ignacio decide!’”

As Lalo prattled on about the wine, Nacho tuned him out. He didn’t know anything about wine, anyways. His gaze drifted towards the pantry.

“Nacho.”

His eyes snapped back to Lalo. He was looking at him expectantly with both bottles raised. “What will it be?”

Nacho chose one at random. Lalo uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses, but he made no move to drink from his own. Instead, he watched Nacho intently as he warily took a sip.

“So, what do you think of the Chilean?”

Nacho froze. _Shit!_ Of course Lalo wasn’t just here to make him dinner. He wondered if Tyrus could hear them from inside the pantry.

“I . . . think he’s smart.”

Lalo furrowed his brow in confusion. Then, he roared with laughter. “No, no, not Fring! I meant the wine!”

Nacho looked down at the bottle. Sure enough, it was a Chilean Merlot.

Still laughing, Lalo turned back to the stove and busied himself with cooking. Nacho drained the rest of his glass. 

By the time Lalo plated the meal, the house was filled with the sweet, chocolatey smell of mole, but Nacho was nothing but frayed nerves and tense muscles. He wondered how much longer he could keep Tyrus-- and by extension, Fring-- waiting. 

The food, unsurprisingly, was delicious. Under different circumstances, such a meal would have been the perfect way to end a long and stressful day. He wondered what it would be like to come home every night to a warm, home-cooked meal. Amber and Jo occasionally tried to cook for him, but neither could muster up much more than a grilled cheese. 

Nacho surprised himself with his appetite. He silently cursed himself for not savoring the food, but couldn’t stop from wolfing it down in mere minutes. Lalo wasn’t far behind him. After shoving the last forkful of rice in his mouth, Lalo stared at him expectantly, dark eyes unblinking.

Nacho dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks, man, that was really good. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Something danced behind Lalo’s eyes. He stood and stalked towards Nacho, stopping behind his chair. Nacho’s heart was pounding in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Seeing his adversary offered him no advantage in this situation. He was stronger, younger, and faster, but none of that mattered. Nacho knew by now that there was no winning against a Salamanca.

Nacho flinched as Lalo’s cold fingers landed on his neck. This was it. He was going to be choked out in his own home, a cold and cavernous house that didn’t even feel like his own. All things considered, it was probably the best death he could ask for. At least he’d been given a last meal.

But Lalo’s fingers didn’t curl around his throat. His thumbs pressed into the back of his neck, drawing small, deliberate circles. Then they drifted down, kneading the muscle that connected the neck to the shoulders. Nacho didn’t dare to speak. Tuco had been dangerously erratic, but at least he could credit the unpredictability to the crystal. This? He had no fucking clue where this was coming from.

When Lalo finally spoke, his voice was low, practically a purr. “You’ve been tense, Ignacio.” Lalo said his name as if he took pleasure in holding the word in his mouth, like it was a hard candy melting on his tongue. “I don’t like to see it.”

Nacho couldn’t have replied if he wanted to. His mind was blank. He could barely accept the reality that his maniacal boss was massaging his shoulders, let alone rationalize it. He would have preferred that Lalo choked him.

“You carry your stress in your shoulders and in your back. But it’s too heavy for you, my friend. You need to let it go, or else you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Nacho winced in pain as Lalo’s thumbs drove deeper into the tense muscle. Suddenly, he felt Lalo’s warm breath on the back of his ear.

“ _Relájate, amigo._ ”

Despite himself, Nacho listened. He slowed his breathing and closed his eyes. Lalo’s strong fingers made their way across his shoulders, pressing in and out, in and out. Slowly, little by little, Nacho felt the tension ease out of his body. 

Too soon, Lalo stopped. Nacho opened his eyes. He had to crane and twist his neck to look up at Lalo. He loomed over him, his face stoic. Staring back at him, Nacho felt paralyzed, held down only by Lalo’s heavy gaze.

“Go lie down on the couch. Face down.”

Lalo moved before he did, walking in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen. His tone had left no room for argument, so Nacho slowly stood and walked to the living room.

“And take off your shirt.”

Again, Nacho froze. All at once, the tension returned to his body. He felt like a boulder had been dropped on his chest.

He snapped out of his stupor when he heard footsteps approaching. Quickly, he shrugged off his shirt and laid down on the couch, propping himself up on his elbows.

When Lalo returned, his expression had softened. In his hand he carried the bottle of lotion. He gently nudged Nacho’s hip with his knee.

“Scooch.”

Nacho obliged and Lalo sat down, his thigh pressing into Nacho’s side. A odd, warm sensation pooled in Nacho stomach as he watched Lalo squirt some of the lotion into his hands and rub them together. His heart stuttered.

Lalo rapped his knuckles on Nacho’s spine. “All the way down.”

Tentatively, Nacho obeyed. He rested his forehead on his folded arms, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face from Lalo. With a shuddering breath, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut.

Lalo’s hands were soft and warm. He began by gently running his palms down the length of Nacho’s back, one hand on either side of his spine, smoothing the lotion over the taught and scarred musculature. He moved back up towards Nacho’s shoulder, fingers firmly depressing the flesh. As he slowly made his way back down, kneading as he went, all of the tension Nacho had been carrying once again began to bleed from his body. He was reminded of the time, nearly a year ago now, that Tyrus and Victor had left him in the desert, blood from the bullet wounds in his shoulder and gut pooling in the warm sand around him. It was four hours before Marco and Leonel had found him. After the second hour, the pain had dissipated, replaced by a blanketing heat. Nacho-- who had been positive he would die before the twins could find him-- had mouthed a silent prayer, thanking God for affording him that final respite from his aching body before he went.

When Lalo made it to his mid-back, he dug the heels of his hands into Nacho’s sides, much harder than his fingers had dug into his shoulders. Suddenly, Nacho’s mind went completely blank. All of the latent anxiety about his father’s naive defiance, about Don Hector sitting idly in a nursing home, about the goon in the pantry, gone. He had to bite his lip to stifle a groan.

“You have a beautiful body, Ignacio.” Lalo’s tone was matter-of-fact, but his voice was low and husky, barely more than a whisper.

Confused and embarrassed, Nacho said nothing, merely focused on his breathing. He felt like his face was on fire. He had the sudden urge to roll his hips into the couch cushions. _Oh god, was he getting hard?!_

Nacho wasn’t given a chance to panic, because Lalo’s magic hands were still moving down, pressing deep and languid circles into the small of his back. Lalo’s thumbs dipped just below the waistband of his jeans, pressing into dimples above his ass. This time, Nacho couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his lips. 

Lalo stilled. _Fuck!_ Nacho still didn’t know what Lalo’s game was, but he was sure that he just lost.

There was a rustling of clothing and then a heavy weight dropped down on Nacho. Lalo’s thighs straddled his own. The new angle allowed Lalo more leverage as he drove his hands into the knotted muscle tissue, even harder than before. Nacho’s breath was low and horribly audible now, teetering on the edge of becoming a string of wanton moans.

And then Lalo was leaning forward. As he did so, his hips canted forward, pressing something firm into Nacho’s ass. Nacho felt an expanse of warm, bare skin meet his back and he realized that Lalo had taken his own shirt off. There was a brief tickle of hair at the back of his neck, followed by the gentle press of Lalo’s lips to his skin. Nacho sucked in a sharp breath.

A low chuckle made his skin vibrate. “Easy,” Lalo cooed, like he was calming a spooked horse.

Lalo continued down his spine, dropping reverent, wet kisses over each vertebrae. His hands followed, still lightly massaging the softening muscles of his back. Nacho’s pleasant reverie was broken by Lalo suddenly yanking his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion. _Thwack!_ A sharp pain exploded over his right buttock and Nacho winced. But the pain was immediately eased by the cool sensation of lotion being gently rubbed right over the spot where he was smacked. Bit by bit, the pressure increased. Lalo took his other cheek in hand and kneaded both, just as he had with Nacho’s back.

“And what an ass you have.” 

He could hear Lalo’s toothy grin. It was too much. The attention, the praise, everything. Nacho wished Lalo would just shut up.

The next thing he heard wasn’t Lalo’s voice, but a soft click. And then Lalo was spreading his cheeks apart and using his fingers to smear something wet across his rim, colder than the lotion. Nacho jerked his head up and started to raise himself back onto his elbows, but he was pinned down by a broad hand at his back. Again, he felt a warm breath at the back of his ear. 

“ _Relájate, mi tesoro._ ”

And then all of a sudden Nacho was being penetrated. It was just one finger, and the pain was nothing compared to the multiple bullet wounds he’d suffered or even a solid blow landed by Tuco, but it was twice as shocking. He gasped in surprise and received cruel snicker in response. Lalo grabbed his hips and pulled them up so Nacho’s knees were underneath him, ass in the air. He continued to work him open. It was uncomfortable until Lalo crooked his finger and Nacho’s vision went white. He must have yelped, because Lalo was laughing. Feeling a sudden burst of defiance, Nacho rocked his hips back. The laughter was replaced by a growl and Nacho was rewarded with a second finger. Nacho continued to rock his hips back and Lalo continued to probe, hitting the same spot again and again. A lube-covered hand reached around to stroke his dick, agonizingly slow. Just when Nacho felt like he was about to combust, it all stopped. He was suddenly empty and aching, cock dripping pre-come onto the leather couch cushions. 

“Turn over.”

When Nacho didn’t immediately obey, Lalo smacked him across the ass again, this time harder than the first. Rolling over, he was met with Lalo’s hungry gaze. He looked wild, delirious. He was breathing just as heavily as Nacho. His eyes raked down Nacho’s body, appraising, as he undid his fly and took himself in hand. His cock was thick and swollen. Without ceremony or preamble, he lined it up with Nacho’s entrance and pushed in.

Nacho bit his fist to keep from screaming, but it was yanked away.

“None of that. I want to hear you.”

And so Ignacio moaned. With each thrust he moaned louder and louder, louder than he had ever permitted himself during sex. His cries seemed to echo off the tall ceiling of the living room and through the house. Lalo pushed his legs towards his shoulders, massaging his thick thighs with his thumbs. With this new angle, Lalo fucked him harder. When he finally returned his hand to Nacho’s throbbing dick, it only took a few strokes before he was done with. Lalo grabbed his jaw with his free hand and Nacho came, slack-jawed and mewling, staring into Lalo’s inscrutable and manic eyes.

A few more thrusts and Lalo followed. He grunted and bit Nacho at the junction of his neck and shoulder, the same place where he had first touched him not twenty minutes earlier. Clearly spent, Lalo collapsed on top of Nacho. He mouthed lazily at the spot where he had bitten him, kissing and licking the sensitive skin. He mouthed up his neck, up his jaw, and then captured his lips in a slow and sloppy kiss. Nacho sighed into it and brought his hand to the back of Lalo’s neck. Just a few seconds, and it was over. Lalo pulled back and studied Nacho. His expression was blank again, and for a split second Nacho panicked, but then Lalo was grinning that crazed, face-splitting grin of his. He pecked Nacho on the cheek and then he was up. Nacho hadn’t even realized he was still inside him until Lalo pulled out. He felt empty as he watched Lalo stroll away, butt-naked, towards his bedroom.

Moments later, he heard the shower turn on. Nacho sighed and threw an arm over his face, chest heaving. He reveled in the stillness of the room until he heard it: the creaking of a door, coming from the kitchen.

Nacho nearly fell off the couch in his rush to pull up his underwear. He was still wiping his own cum off his chest with his shirt when a beleaguered-looking Tyrus stepped quietly into the living room.

For a few tense moments, the two men just stared at each other.

Finally, Nacho spoke. “He’s in the shower.”

Tyrus kept on glaring. At long last, he let out a weary sigh, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door.

Nacho gritted his teeth as the tension began to crawl back up his spine.

* * * * *

It was late when Tyrus finally arrived at Los Pollos Hermanos, much too late. He knew he shouldn’t do anything to keep his boss waiting any longer, but he took a minute to stand silently in front of the office door before composing himself and knocking.

“Come in.”

Gustavo’s expression made Tyrus think of dark storm clouds barreling over the horizon.

“Where is Varga?”

“He won’t be coming tonight.”

Gustavo’s face grew darker. “Why?”

Tyrus grimaced. Sometimes, this job really wasn’t worth the stress. He made a mental note to book himself a massage; his back was killing him.

**Author's Note:**

> 1.They say write what you know, and what I know is back pain!
> 
> 2\. I'm a monolingual lesbian, so I apologize if any of the Spanish or man-on-man sex seems out of whack. ("Relajate" is the only word I used that I didn't already know. Please let me know if I got the imperative wrong!)
> 
> 3\. I tried to make this as canon-compliant as possible, but there are two minor things I knowingly fudged. A) Michael Mando is 38. I don't know exactly how old Nacho is supposed to be, but I made him a little bit younger because the Dog Paulson thing happened in '96/'97, and for some reason it felt important for that to happen before Nacho turned 30. B) The bit about "no dealer had dared come in short since Hector's accident" is inaccurate. I rewatched a bunch of the collection scenes while writing this, but didn't get to the one where Nacho rips our Blingy's earring in season 4 until after I wrote that bit. I kept it in, because I wanted Nacho to have Hector in the back of his mind.
> 
> 4\. Wanna talk more these scumbags? You can find me on tumblr at sob-dylan!
> 
> 5\. Idk how to link in this format, so please do yourself a favor and find the beautiful artwork @krokorobin did for this on his tumblr!


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